/ '/ 




Book.±AnSLPf 
Oop;yriglitF_lfU-4_ 

CjQEXRIGHT DEPOSm 



TRENCH BALLADS 

AND OTHER VERSES 




£^ovU /i^Cu^uC^vxZ^c 



£Xsks>^>A>^ 



Trench Ballads 

AND OTHER VERSES 



BY 

ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT 

l) 

Author of "Army Ballads and Other Verses" 



Villi. itt'- : cM 



PHILADELPHIA 

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

1919 






Copyright, 1919, by 
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. 



DEC 17 1919 



©CI.A559087 



^v\t) 



THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MY FATHER, 

the late Captain George L. Garrett, of the Union 
Armv, during the Civil War 

AND TO 

MY MOTHER, 

whose lifelong devotion, unselfishness, tenderness 
and loyalty to me, as to all her family and 
friends, make this dedication a pleas- 
ure and a joy only commensurate 
with my thought of her. 



PREFACE 

I have divided this book into three distinct parts. 
Part I, Trench Ballads, consists of forty American sol- 
dier poems of America's participation in the World 
War, 1917-19, based entirely on actual facts and in- 
cidents, and almost exclusively on my own personal 
experiences and observations, when a private in Com- 
pany G, 16th Infantry, First Division, of the Ameri- 
can Expeditionary Forces in France. Part II, Pre- 
war Poems, consists of three sets of verses written just 
before the active entry of America in the war, and 
appertaining to, but not an integral part of, it, and 
therefore grouped separately. Part III, Other Poems, 
contains those of a general and non-military character. 

It is highly desirable the "Notes" at the end of 
this volume should be consulted, and that it be rea- 
lized that with few exceptions, all these Trench 
Ballads were written in France, many scribbled on odd 
pieces of paper or on old envelopes in the trenches 
themselves, and consequently, when present locality 
is intimated, it is always France, that is to say, 
from the standpoint that I am speaking in and from 
the seat of operations. For example, when I use the 
term "over here," it really means what the people 
at home in America would call "over there." Hyper- 
bole or little characteristic anecdotes that really never 
occurred, except in the brain of an author, I have ab- 



solutely shunned, and have endeavored to adhere 
strictly to "the truth, the whole truth and nothing 
but the truth," and to set forth the vicissitudes; the 
dangers, joys and tribulations of the army man, and 
especially the man in the ranks, and more especially 
the man in the ranks of the Infantry, as these latter 
formed the actual front-line or combat troops that bore 
the brunt in this greatest of all wars. 

Absolute continuity or sequence would seem super- 
fluous, but it will be observed that I have endeavored 
to maintain it to a certain extent, i.e., by gradually 
leading from a number of military verses, without any 
strict inter-relation, to the day of being wounded, 
then on to several poems concerning the military 
hospital, and finally bringing the Trench Ballads to 
a close with those having to do with the returning 
home of the soldier. 

My previous book, "Army Ballads and Other 
Verses, ' ' is the result of my experiences when serving 
as a private in Companies "L" and "G," 23rd In- 
fantry and Troop "I," 5th Cavalry (Regulars), dur- 
ing the Philippine Insurrection of 1899-1902, and if 
"Army Ballads and Other Verses" is taken in con- 
junction with this volume, it is my hope together they 
may prove a fairly comprehensive anthology of the 
American soldier of recent times. 

E. C. G. 

Philadelphia, 
November 1st, 1919. 



CONTENTS 

PART I— TRENCH BALLADS 

Trenches 17 

Barb-Wire Posts 19 

Feet 21 

Your Gas-Mash 22 

Slum and Beef Stew .23 

Shell-Fire 25 

Mr. Fly 27 

The Salvation Army with the A. E. F. . . . 29 

Shell-Holes 30 

Food 33 

Over the Top 36 

The Battle Mother 38 

Song of the Volunteers of 1917 40 

0. D 42 

Artillery Registering 44 

Reciprocity 46 

Trucks 48 

Mademoiselle 51 

The First Division 53 

Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs 55 

A Trip-Wire .56 

The Favorite Song 57 

Captain Blankburg 59 

Little War Mothers 62 

Interrupted Chow 63 



8.0.8 67 

The Gas-Proof Mule 68 

Infantry of the World War 71 

The Flowers of France 73 

A First-Class Private 74 

Birds of Battle 76 

Only for You 77 

Cooties 78 

Old Fusee 80 

The Colors of Blighty 82 

When Nurse Comes in 84 

Charlie Chaplin in Blighty 85 

Two Worlds .87 

Embarkation Home 89 

The Statue of Liberty 91 

PART II— PRE-WAR POEMS 

To France— 1917 95 

The Pacifist 97 

Battle Hymn of '17 100 

PART III— OTHER VERSES 

My Sapphire 105 

The Twins 107 

On Sending My Book to an English Friend . . 108 

Immortal Keats 109 

To a Little Girl Ill 

God 113 

The Golden Day 117 

Notes 121 



MY COMRADES IN THE BANKS. 

You chose no easy Service, 

No safe job, friends of mine, 
But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches 

And 'the foremost battle-line. 
No camouflage patriotism — 

Though you had from a wealth to choose 
But the wicked work of No Man's Land, 

Filling a man's-size shoes. 

You didn't say you wouldn't play 

If you got no shoulder bars — 
You even placed your Country 

Above a general's stars: 
For shocking, very shocking, 

You didn't give a damn 
About your il social status," 

When you fought for Uncle Sam. 

Friends of mine, friends of mine, 

I've shared your toil and tears — 
Your dangers and your little woes, 

When days were 'turned to years. 
I may not make them understand 

The things that you have done, 
But God bless you and God keep you — 

Every blessed mother's son. 



PART I. 
TRENCH BALLADS, 



TRENCHES. 

TEENCHES dripping, wet and cold — 

Trenches hot and dry — 
Long, drab, endless trenches 

Stretching far and nigh. 

Zigzag, fretted, running sere 

From the cold North Sea, 
'Cross the muddy Flanders plain 

And vales of Picardy. 

Through the fields of new, green wheat 

Filled with poppies red, 
While abandoned plow-shares show 

Whence the peasants fled. 

Past the great cathedral towns, 

Where each gorgeous spire 
Torn and tottering, slowly wilts 

'Neath the Vandals' ire. 

Hiding in the shadows 

Of the hills of French Lorraine, 
And bending south through rugged heights 

To the land of sun again. 

Trenches, endless trenches, 
Shod with high desire — 
17 



All that man holds more than life, 
And touched with patriot fire. 

Trenches, endless trenches, 

Where tightening draws the cord 
'Round the throat of brutal Kultur, 

And its red and dripping sword. 

Trenches, endless trenches, 

Bleached and choked with rain, 

Could ye speak what tales ye'd tell 
Of honor, death and pain. 

Could ye speak, what tales ye'd tell 
Of shame and golden worth, 

To the glory and damnation 
Of the spawn of all the Earth. 



18 



BARB-WIRE POSTS. 

FIVE o 'clock ; the shadows fall 

In mist and gloom and cloud ; 
And No Man 's Land is a sullen waste, 

Wrapped in a sodden shroud ; 
And the click of Big Mac's moving foot 

Is a dangerous noise and loud. 

Ten o'clock; the wind moans low — 

Each tree is a phantom gray : 
And the wired posts are silent ghosts 

That move with a drunken sway; 
(But never a gleam in No Man's Land 

Till the dawn of another day) . 

Twelve o 'clock ; the heavens yawn 
Like the mouth of a chasm deep ; 

And see — that isn't the fence out there- 
It's a Boche — and he stoops to creep — 

I'll take a shot — oh hell, a post — 
(Oh God, for a wink o' sleep). 

Two o 'clock ; the cold wet fog 
Bears down in dripping banks : 

Ah, here they come — the dirty hounds — 
In swinging, serried ranks! 
19 



Why don't the automatics start 1 
Or do my eyes play pranks? 

It doesn't seem a column now, 

But just two sneaking there: 
And one is climbing over, 

While the other of the pair 
Is clipping at the wires 

With exasperating care. 

(I'm sober as a gray-beard judge 

I'm calm as the morning dew — 
I'm wide awake and I'll stake 

My eyes with the best of you ; 
But I can't explain just how or why 

Posts do the things they do.) 

Three o'clock; they're on the move — 
Well, let the beggars come. . . . 

A crash — a hush — a spiral shriek — 
And a noise like a big bass drum — 

(I hope that Hun shot hasn't found 
Our kitchen and the slum). 

Five o'clock; the first faint streak 

Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; 
And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts 

That swagger, click and sway, 
And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, 

In a most unpleasant way. 



20 



FEET. 

SOME say this war was fought and won 

With gleaming bayonets, 
That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff 

And leave no fond regrets : 
Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns 

Where the first barrages meet, 
But I, by the poor old weary limping 

Tired broken feet. 

Some say this war was fought and won 

By the crawling, reeking gas; 
Some, by the flitting birdmen, 

That dip and pause and pass: 
Some, by the splitting hand-grenades — 

But I, I hear the beat 
Of the poor old faithful worn limping 

Tired broken feet. 

Some say the war was fought and won 

By This or That or Those — 
But I, by heel and sunken arch 

And blistered, bleeding toes. 
Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles, 

Through mire, slush and sleet, 
To the glory of the rhythm 

Of the poor old broken feet. 
21 



YOUR GAS-MASK. 

WHEN over your shoulders your " full-field " you 

fling, 
And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, 
What is it you reach for, as outward you swing? 
Your gas-mask. 

If you head for a bath by the small river's flow — 
Though only a distance of fifty or so — 
What is it you carefully grab ere you go ? 
Your gas-mask. 

When in full marching-order, where mules might 

suffice, 
And you count your equipment, each having its price, 
What is it you feel for and count over twice ? 
Your gas-mask. 

In morning and afternoon, evening and night — 
In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight, 
What is it you cherish and cling to so tight ? 
Your gas-mask. 

What is it you never leave thoughtless behind? 
What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind 
As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind ? 
Your gas-mask. 

22 



SLUM AND BEEF STEW. 

IT 'S a lot of dirty water 
And some little dabs of spuds, 

And dubious hunks of gristly meat 
And divers other duds. 

Served up to us in trenches, 

Our hunger made it good, 
But elsewhere — when we got it — 

"We ate it, if we could. 

And now about the time Josephus 

Tells his gobs to call 
Port and Starboard, left and right, 

We're ordered, one and all, 

To most respectfully address 

Our slum as "beef stew" — Gosh, 

Methinks the Brains of the Army 
Has dished-up awful bosh. 

For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum 

Has called it so for aye; 
As 'twas when Thotmes III marched north 

To check the Hittites' sway. 
23 



As 'twas when Cyrus* doughboys swept 

Through the Cilieian Gates — 
And as 'twill ever be so long 

As a weary mess-line waits. 

So long as Nations fight and eat — 
Though all don't feed as well — 

For the Colonel is Sitting on the World- 
While we are S. 0. L. 

Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may 

Strike you as on the bum — 
But as we're Pershing's slum-hounds, 



We '11 call the damn thing ' ' slum. 



17 



24 



SHELL-FIRE. 

The Run he taught us Gas and things — 

But the high explosive shell 
Was born of the Devil's mirth 

And the reddest forge in Hell. 

Now one hits the village church, 

And the ancient, wavering wall 
And the little pointed tower swing 

And stagger and sway and fall. 

Now one hits a red-slag roof, 

And eighty feet on high 
Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud 

Against an azure sky. 

Now one hits in a field of wheat, 

Fresh planted, fair and green, 
And a mighty, thundering crater bursts 

Where abandoned plows careen. 

Now one nears with spiral shriek 
And strikes in the long white road, 

And the Lord ha' mercy on the Red Cross truck, 
And its helpless, weary load. 

25 



Now one comes where you crouching wait 

In the trench 's far-flung line, 
And you know there is never shelter against 

The voice of that deadly whine. 

Now one pierces the dugout's roof, 
And when the foul smokes pass, 

What once was there a dozen men 
Is a crimson, clotted mass. 

In the pale moonlight or the black of night— 

When the sunset fires flare — 
In the noontime's calm, without alarm, 

The Great Arch Fiend is there, 
With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh 

On his errand of despair. 



26 



MR. FLY. 

THERE 'S a nice stiff breeze ablowing, 

Mr. Ply; 
That keeps from out my trench. 
The decomposing stench 
Of a soldier, Boche or French, 

Mr. Fly. 

So please run off and play, 

Mr. Fly. 
So please run off and play 
Like a good fly, right away, 
For I want to sleep today, 

Mr. Fly. 

I'm dozing like a bull-finch, 

Mr. Fly, 
When you hop me, unaware, 
And I wake and swat and swear, 
And you return with thoughtful care, 

Mr. Fly. 

Can't you see I'm very tired, 

Mr. Fly? 
That the G. I. Cans don't bust, 
And I 've nibbled on a crust, 

27 



And deserve a snooze, I trust, 
Mr. Fly. 

Do you think it's square and decent, 

Mr. Fly, 
When the Cooties cease to bite, 
(And there is no sleep at night) 
That you give me no respite, 

Mr. Fly? 

An hour's calm is with us, 

Mr. Fly; 
And the endless battle strain, 
And the shelling and the rain, 
Ought to make it very plain, 

Mr. Fly- 
That I need a little nap, 

Mr. Fly. 
That I do need mighty well 
Just to sun and rest a spell, 
And to sleep here where I fell, 

Mr. Fly. 

So have a heart, oh have a heart ! 

Mr. Fly. 
If you're looking for a fight 
And you must come 'round and bite, 
Make your visit in the night, 

Mr. Fly. 



28 



THE SALVATION ARMY WITH THE A. E. F. 

YOU kept no roped-off rows of chairs 
Or clubs "For Officers Only," 

But you toiled for John Doe when he was 
Cold, tired, wet and lonely. 

You didn 't squander millions 

On soldiers warming benches, 
But you worked like blazes for the ones 

That frequented the trenches. 

You didn't stick to cast-iron rules 

Of business most punctilious, 
And you never treated Private Doe 

With manner supercilious. 

You had no boundless backing — 

But just inside your doors 
It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill — 

Sit down, the place is yours. ' ' 

Some things we fain remember — 

Some things we fain forget — 
But you, oh kindly people, 

Live in our memory yet. 



29 



SHELL-HOLES. 

THEY'RE ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes 

That litter up the ground, 
That ruin all the landscape 

For miles and miles around. 

That pock-mark fertile fields of green — 
That rip the hard French roads, 

And catch the lumbering trucks at night 
Agroan beneath their loads. 

And some of them are little uns 
The shrill one-pounders plow — 

About a meter — edge to edge — 
But large enough, I trow. 

And some of them nigh twice as broad, 
And rather more straight down, 

The "77" Boches' gift, 
Of dubious renown. 

And some of them a dozen feet 

From rim to ragged rim, 
And deep enough to hide a horse — 

A crater, gaunt and grim. 
30 



And some of them are yellow-black, 
Where clings the reek of gas, 

(But here we do not pause to gaze, 
Nor linger as we pass). 

And some of them are water-fouled — 
Or dried and parched and dun; 

And some of them are newly turned — ■ 
Fresh blotches 'neath the sun. 

But all spell red destruction, 
Blind rage and blinding hate, 

To them who charge the shell-swept zone 
Or in the trenches wait. 

Should we say "all," or modify 

Our statement? Any fool 
Knows that exceptions always rise 

To prove an iron-clad rule. 

And so in this case we can name 
Some shell-holes we have met, 

The thought of whose engulfing sides 
Clings in our memory yet. 

They were the holes we rolled into — ■ 
When iron or bullet struck — 

Cursing the cursed Prussian, 
And blessing our blessed luck. 

Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, 
Wherein we helpless lay, 
31 



A wondrous couch of velvet 
Ye seemed to us that day. 

Our blood it stained your cushions 

A deep and richer red, 
As shrieking messengers of death 

Sped harmless overhead. 

Swept whining in their blood-lust, 
Hell's music, bleak and grim, 

Splitting in rage the edges 
Of your all-protecting rim. 

Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, 
In vales of grass and wheat — 

On hillside and in forest, 
In road and village street — 



u o v 



Your toll of suffering and death 
Is flashed to East and West — 

But tell they of the wounded 
YeVe sheltered in your breast? 



32 



FOOD. 

WE'VE eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz— 
The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon 

too. 
We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and 

Meurice, 
Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never 

knew. 

From tables where the Northern Fires greet the com- 
ing night — 

To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay ; 

From Shepheard's (which means Cairo) to that little 
hostelry 

Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs 
sway. 

We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all 

routes known to man — 
We 've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they 

scarcely came : 
From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, 
From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things 

and game. 

33 



We 've put them all beneath our belt with consummate 

address : 
"We've risen from the laden board and smacked our 

jowl in glee. 
With organs sound and healthy we have murdered 

each menu 
And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's 

ecstasy. 

But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated 

deep — 
That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the 

core? 
Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated 

not, 
That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more? 

The place — a little half deserted town in northern 

France : 
The time — a time of carnage, of wanton strife and 

hate: 
And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two 
Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands 

of Fate. 

Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, 

I've got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake ; 

A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old farm- 
house near by, 

And with this tout ensemble you can see I'm sitting 
jake. 



34 



I've entered now a peasant's house — an ancient, 

kindly dame — 
Who's seen me several times before, and knows just 

what I wish : 
So the frying-pan is gotten out — the pewter fork and 

knife— 
A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial 

dish. 

And I 'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty 

bowl 
(The while the eggs are frying, "Sur le plat, oui, s'il 

vous plait"), 
And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a 

draught of milk, 
To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way. 

And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate 's 

hot and rich ; 
I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons 

near: 
A hunger from a front-line trench — the stomach of a 

goat — 
And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns 

ring clear. 

And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the 

veil — 
So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy — 
And maybe you will understand why other dinners 

pale, 
And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy. 



35 



OVER THE TOP. 

WE 'VE soldiered many, many moons 

In this old plugging war, 
And all the ills and all the thrills, 

We've had 'em o'er and o'er. 

Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas — 
Night work in No Man's Land — 

And everything that calls for nerve, 
Endurance, guts and sand. 

We've argued which we liked the worst- 

Machine-guns, gas or shell. 
We've ruminated carefully — 

And done it rather well. 

And after all our resume 

And cogitating bull, 
We've reached a clear decision, 

Most amplified and full: — 

The greatest time in all the life 

Of any living man — 
The mightiest moment of the Game — 

The proudest, high elan ; 
36 



The thing we came three thousand miles 

Across the seas to do — 
"The Day," the splendid hour 

That waits for me and you, 

Arrives — We spring into the wastes 
Of land, ripped, roweled and barred- 

The battle-lust in brain and eye — 
The weary jaw set hard ; 

The rifle gripped in hands of steel, 

Where, flashing in the sun, 
Sweep on our blazing bayonets, 

The terror of the Hun. 



37 



THE BATTLE MOTHER. 

OVER the sodden trenches — 

Over the skirmish line — 
High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads 

Cometh a face to mine. 

Under the burning gas attack, 

And the stench of the bursting shell, 

We hope we may live for her dear sake — 
She who would wish us well. 

(She who has ever cherished us — 

But when the hour came 
Choked back the tears of the faithful years, 

As we left to play the game.) 

Between the blazing horizons 

That hammer the long night through, 
Lapping their tongues of hatred — 

Fearless she comes to you. 

And over the roar of battle 

Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, 
Shine forth the loving eyes we hold 

Above all earthly things. 

38 



A World run mad with slaughter- 
A charnel-house of blood — 

But the face of the Battle Mother 
Above the crimson flood. 



39 



SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

The whole big army did, 
But we prefer the spirit 

Of the Bayard and the Cid. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

But when Jack sailed for France, 
They didn't have to drag us in 

By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

But when it first began, 
From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, 

We rose, a single man. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

But when the days were black, 
Glad we sprang to the call to front 

The snarling, charging pack. 

The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, 

In a victor's drunken might: 
The unleashed, howling gray hordes 

Sweeping plain and height. 

40 



The drafted men fought hard and well, 
But when the great floes pressed, 

Came we to break the ice and clear 
A channel for the rest. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

But now the thing is o'er, 
We 're glad we came the way we came 

When the Nation rose to war. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

But now the thing is done, 
We're glad we came the time we came 

In the heyday of the Hun. 

Shades of Patrick Henry — 

Of Washington and Hale, 
God grant we've kept the trust — God grant 

The Old Guard shall not fail. 

The drafted men fought hard and well, 

The whole vast army did, 
But we prefer the spirit 

Of the Bayard and the Cid. 



41 



0. D. 

0. D., it ought to mean Oh Damn, 

When in the pay of Uncle Sam : 
Bat when you hear the soldier blah 

"0. B., ,y it just means Olive Drab. 

The leggings, breeches and the boots 
Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots — 

The overcoats and jackets too, 

Confess the selfsame mournful hue. 

It may be excellent camouflage 

To try to fool a young barrage ; 
It may not show the bally dirt 

So much upon your knees and shirt. 

It may be serviceable and such 

When you are beating-up the ' ' Dutch ; ' ' 

But from a calm esthetic point, 
The color's sadly out-of- joint. 

A little mud on red or blue 

May seem quite prominent to you ; 

But put the same upon 0. D., 

And the whole blame thing looks mud to me. 
42 



But then, it matches trenches well, 

And things that make you say, Oh Hell 

For instance, hikes, inspections, drills, 
And busted arms with C. C. pills. 

It makes you heave a sigh or two 

For the good old days of brass and blue ; 

But if it's fit to beat the "Dutch" 
I guess it doesn't matter much. 



43 



ARTILLERY REGISTERING. 

THEY'RE shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- 

My boy. 
They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench, 
Which means tonight they'll surely drench 
These works with shells that burst and stench 

(And cloy). 

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench — 

My lad. 
It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, 
And quite promiscuously around 
It showers metal on the ground 

(It's bad). 

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench — 

Recruit. 
So do not stand and stupid stare 
Till some comes down and parts your hair, 
But hunt your dugout and beware 

(To boot). 

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench — 

Young man. 
Which means tonight the gas shells' thud 
Will muffled fall like chunks of mud; 

44 



And th' blinding, crashing Prince of Blood- 
The G. I. Can. 

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench — 

My child. 
And ere the dawn is turning gray — 
You mark the very words I say — 
There's going to be hell to pay 

(High piled). 



45 



RECIPROCITY. 

WE haven't been in this large strife 

So very long to date, 
But we have learned our answer to 

The Prussian ''Hymn of Hate." 
And we are feeding him for pap, 

As plain as A. B. C, 
A pretty little ditty known 

As "Reciprocity." 

The Hun he planned for War, red War, 

By ocean, air and land; 
And he is getting oodles of 

The same, to date, in hand. 
He suddenly sprang poison gas 

Upon a valiant foe, 
And now he's getting gas and gas, 

And more gas, as you know. 

He found new tricks and wrinkles for 

This gory battle game, 
And now we stoop, no more his dupe, 

And beat him at the same. 
He drowned our women in the sea — 

He ravished where he won — 
But these were little things we couldn't 

Copy from the Hun. 
46 



His crimson heel lie bade us feel, 
His lust and pride and scorn — 

Till, echoing in our weary breasts 
A righteous hate was born 

Beware the patient man in wrath, 
The olden proverb saith ; 

And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood- 
In blood meet ye your death. 



47 



TRUCKS. 

Lunging-wild, careening trucks 

Plunging through the ra 
Sweeping down the rainbow road 

To the sunlit plain. 
And echoing back with ponderous roar 

Their cargo's wild refrain. 

We're bowling over the roads of France — 

White roads. 
We're twenty gray tracks in a long, long line, 
Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine. 
And some day we'll roll to the Watch on the Rhine 

Joyous loads. 

But now we're returning to billets for rest — 

Earned repose. 
We've been in the trenches for many a week. 
In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak. 
Till we all are so hoarse we scarcely can speak. 

Goodness knows. 

Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn, 

And mud? 
My heavens ! we have it in our leggings and hair — 
On breeches and jackets and all that we wear — 



But we are so happy, we really don't care — 
'Tisn't blood. 

It isn't those long, endless vigils at night, 

On the rack. 
It isn't the fighting and hunger and heat — 
It isn't the slush and rheumatics and sleet — 
It isn't the once-a-day cold meal we eat 

In the black. 

It isn't the shelling from sun unto sun — 

Cursed shells : 
It isn't the camouflage that you must use 
If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, 
It isn 't the stenches the Hun corpses choose 

For their smells. 

But it's clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave — 

What a treat ! 
It's sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, 
With never a Toto disturbing your rest ; 
It's regaining your "pep" and a wonderful zest 

When you eat. 

We're all of us willing, we're all of us game 

For the fray: 
But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, 
In conducting this large and salubrious war, 
Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore 

On this day? 

So some we are singing and some shoot the bull, 
And some sleep. 
49 



(Don't wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, 
Though he's jammed on your foot till it's dead as a 

stone), 
And we rumble through towns on the way to our own, 
Packed like sheep. 

And your hand is afingering bills large and small — 

Francs galore. 
And you've visions of things that your poor stomach 

begs, 
Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; 
And you find you 've forgotten the crick in your legs — 

Cramped and sore. 

We're a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew — 

Grimy pawed: 
Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, 
And some look behindward, and some look ahead, 
And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped 

To their God. 

Lunging -wild, careening trucks 

Plunging through the rain, 
Sweeping down the rainbow road 

To the sunlit plain, 
And echoing back with ponderous roar 

Their cargo's wild refrain. 



50 



MADEMOISELLE. 

OH Mademoiselle behind the Lmes, 

When we're weary and covered with dirt, 

And you make a promenade with us, 
Or perhaps you mend our shirt. 

You know our lives from your brothers, 
Or your sweethearts who can't come back, 

But only your laughter greets us 
When we shed that awful "pack." 

And some of you sell eggs to us 

In a town whence most have fled: 
And some of your names have "de" and your blood 

Runs blue as well as red. 



Oh Mademoiselle you sure are "chic" 
From your head to the tip o' your toes, 

And if you like us, you just plain like us, 
And you don't give a damn who knows. 

And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la! 

So sparkling, dark and rare, 
With the love of all the ages lying 

Deep and dormant there. 

51 



(Please, please don't think us fickle — 

That we didn't play the game — 
But you seemed so human and made to be loved, 

And we murmured, "Je vous aime. ") 

We hear you're going back with us 

To the tune of ten thousand wives, 
And we wish you ten thousand blessings, 

And ten thousand happy lives. 

So here's a health to you, Mademoiselle, 

Who helped us see it through, 
And the load that your laughter lightened 

Is the debt that we owe to you. 



52 



THE FIRST DIVISION. 
American Expeditionary Forces, 1917-1919. 

WHEX the clarion call of Country 

Bade strong men rise and go, 
Came they the first of the willing first, 

In the pride that leal men know. 

When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread 
'Bove the shores of an angered land, 

Sailed they the first of the Viking first 
Where the treacherous waters spanned. 

When the Eagle's Brood awoke to the shriek 

Of the great shells day and night, 
First of the flock bled they beneath 

The star-flare's blinding light. 

When the lunging, torn front lines locked 

And the strife raged man and man, 
Swept they the first of the fighting first — 

And the van of the battle van. 



From the training days of Gondrecourt- 
Demange — cold, wet and gray — 

53 



To the trenches north of Luneville — 
To Bouconville — Xivray — 

To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts 

Of war-torn Pieardy, 
And the ghastly rubble hilltop 

Where Cantigny used to be : 

To the splendid days of Soissons — 

The crisis of the strife : 
To where giant pincers severed 

St. Mihiel as a knife: 

To the glorious, stubborn struggle 
Up the rugged Argonne slopes, 

Till the gates of Sedan crumbled 
With the Yandals ' crumbling hopes. 



Sweeping in conquering columns 
To the banks of the vaunted Ehine- 

Ever the first of the fighting first, 
And the Lords of the Battle Line. 



54 



LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS. 

LITTLE gold chevrons on my cuffs, 

What do you mean to me? 
"We to the left mean hike and drill, 
Trenches and mud and heat and chill — 
And I to the right for the blood ye spill 

AA 7 here the Marne runs to the sea." 

Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, 

What is the tale ye tell ? 
"We to the left, of the long months spent 
Where the somber seasons slowly blent — 
And I to the right, of the ragged rent 

That took so long to get well. ' ' 

Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, 

What do you say to me? 
' ' That ye would not trade us, master mine, 
For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, 
That you are ours and we are thine 

Through all the years to be. ' ' 



55 



A TRIP-WIRE. 

IF you 're sneaking around on a night patrol, 
Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole, 
And you choke back a curse from the depths of your 
soul — 

It's a trip-wire. 

If you think there isn't a thing around 
Except the desolate, shell-torn ground, 
And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound — 
It 's a trip-wire. 

If you know a murmur would give the alarm, 

And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your 

arm, 
And then you go falling all over the farm — 
It 's a trip-wire. 

If it 's cold and it 's rainy and everything 's mud, 
And you're groping your way through a nice little 

flood, 
And you stand on your head with an elegant thud — 
It 's a trip-wire. 

When -silence is golden (for "news" is the quest), 
And you're returning and stepping your best, 
And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest — 
It 's a trip-wire. 
56 



THE FAVORITE SONG. 
("There's a long, long Trail.") 

THEY sing a song that the pines of Maine 

Hear in the winter's blast — 
They sing a song that the riders hum, 

Where the cattle plains spread vast ; 
But there is one they love the most — 

And they keep it for the last. 

They sing the lays of Puget Sound 

Aglimmering in the sun — 
Of the cotton fields of Alabam', 

Where the Gulf -bound rivers run, 
But one they sing with a wistful look, 

When all the rest are done. 

They chant of the land of Dixie, 

And their "Little Gray Home in the West : 
Of how they'll "can the Kaiser" — 

And they roar with bellowing zest ; 
But one they sing as it were a prayer — 

The song they love the best. 

From Xivray to Cantigny — 
From Soissons to the Meuse — 

57 



From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges 

Agleam in the dawn's first hues — 
They sing a sacred song, for it 

Is red with battle-dews. 

For it is sanctified by space — 

And the cruel wheel of Time ; 
And sacrifice has hallowed it, 

And mellowed every rhyme, 
Until it wells from weary throats 

A thing men call sublime. 

In frozen trench and billet — 

In mire, muck and rain — 
Where the roar of unleashed batteries 

Hurl forth their fires again; 
At rest, or back in Blighty, 

Torn with shell and pain — 

There's a song they dub the fairest — 

There 's a lilt they love the best — 
' ' There 's a long, long trail awinding ' ' 

To the haven of their quest, 
Where the tip of the rainbow reaches 

A land in the golden west. 



58 



CAPTAIN BLANKBURG. 

'When Greek meets Greek." 



THEY knew he was a German — 
They thought he was a spy — 

Toil jours they ' ' covered ' ' him and said, 
"We'll catch him by-and-by. " 

They tried to find, by word or act, 

In front-line trench or rear, 
Some circumstance that would betray 

His treacherous dealings clear. 

They scanned his face when hostile flares 

Set No Man's Land alight — 
They watched him when the Hun barrage 

Tore craters left and right. 

They noted every move he made, 

With ever wakeful eye, 
Reiterating o'er and o'er, 

"We'll catch him by-and-by." 



59 



II 



At last the opportunity 

Loomed large in fact and view, 

And every near-sleuth in the bunch 
Saw that his hunch was true. 

Because, upon an inky night, 
When mist hung o'er the nation, 

The captain took a picked patrol 
To gather information. 

And as they crept on hands and knees, 

In Land No Man may own, 
Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass 

With never sound or moan. 

(The reason being that the Boche, 

On selfsame errand set, 
Were creeping hitherward unseen — 

And likewise mad and wet.) 

'Twas then the detail turned their heads 

To where their captain lay, 
And every rifle in that squad 

Was pointed straight his way. 

And he ? He running true to form, 

Two inches raised his chin, 
And spouted German volubly 

In accents clear and thin. 



60 



Click, click, click, click, click, down the line 

Each safety-catch turned o'er, 
But the captain did not hesitate, 

And merely talked the more. 

In conversation friendly 

He rambled gently on 
Unto the Boches' leader, 

Till it was nearly dawn. 

The while his men they ' ' covered ' ' him — 
The while their hearts grew black — 

And you could feel the trigger fingers 
Squeezing up the slack. 

Just what the purport of his last 

Remark was, no one knew, 
But in a burst of confidence 

A Boche head rose in view. . . . 

Across the four-fold stillness 

That covers No Man's Land, 
An automatic pistol shot 

Rang clear and piercing and 

The next day German papers told 

How Captain Skunk von Skee 
Was killed by a Yankee captain, 

And Yankee treachery. 



61 



LITTLE WAR MOTHERS. 

WHEN you look at his picture and your eyes 

Are dimmed and mighty wet, 
And it seems as though your trembling hands 

Could reach and touch him yet : 
When you faintly call and he answers not 

Your supplicating prayer, 
Remember his last thought was You : 

I know — for I was there. 

When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows, 

And you slowly knit and knit; 
And your furtive eyes from the embers rise 

To where he used to sit: 
And you feel he never can slip up 

And kiss you unaware, 
Remember his last word was You: 

I know— for I was there. 

When your dear brave heart is breaking — 

And life is 'reft of joy ; 
And only the spark of memory — 

The face of a boy — your boy : 
May the good God hover over you, 

And touch your silvered hair, 
And tell you what I 've tried to tell : 

He knows — for He was there. 

62 



INTERRUPTED CHOW. 

I'VE had some mighty narrow calls — 

Some close shaves not a few, 
But one of the fairly closest 

I'll now narrate to you. 

'Twas midnight — hush! the plot grows thick- 
Crowd close, and hold your breath — 

'Twas midnight — and the slum-cart came 
Upon its round of death. 

(It isn't really that the slum 

Was quite as bad as that, 
But the playful Boche so often dropped 

A shell where it was at.) 

'Twas midnight — and our appetites 

Were whetted large and keen, 
As trench feed, once a day, must leave 

An interval between. 

And so we sought the buzzy-cart, 

" Mess-kits alert" and found 
It standing in a quiet spot 

Where never came a sound — 

63 



Excepting that of bursting shells 

Across the field a way, 
(But as I said before, the Boche 

Is very given to play). 

All innocent and hungry-like 

And empty to the core, 
I came upon that buzzy-cart, 

With never thought of war. 

More calm, beneficent and mild — 
More free from things of strife — 

I promise you I never was 
In all my mortal life. 

The air was fair, the stars were out, 

The mocking-bird sang clear ; 
The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, 

And food was very near. 

When suddenly the ground gave way — 

It seemed a mile or more — 
And the whole adjacent landscape leapt 

To heaven with a soar. 

Earth, rocks and stars commingling 

In a swirling mass arose, 
Where I, recumbent in the hole, 

Assumed an easy pose. 

And when I found that I was there — 
Both arms, both legs, and head, 

I picked me up and cogitated 
Why I wasn't dead. 

64 



For information looked I 'round 

North, south and east and west — 
But the good platoon had up and cleared 

Some several feet with zest. 

(And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, 

For me to understand, 
"Was that when I got up I had 

My mess-kit in my hand.) 

And there I stood and gazed me down 

Upon the hole and mud, 
And found I was alive because 

That blamed shell was a ' ' dud. ' ' 

A dud's a shell that fails to burst — 

Whose crater's microscopic — 
And as I'd just sunk down in it, 

My Fates were philanthropic — 

For had the bally thing gone off — 

Instead of sitting jake — 
You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts 

With a hair-comb or a rake. 

You'd ne'er have found your humble slave — 

For, sprinkled east and west, 
My sad remains would scarce have bulged 

The pocket of your vest. 

A finger in Benares — 

A toe in Timbuctoo — 
And on the Mountains of the Moon 

A portion of my shoe. 

65 



An eye on Kinchinjanga — 

To greet the snow-peaked morn ; 

An ear at Cape Lopatka, 

And my dog-tag at the Horn. 



66 



S. 0. s. 
(Service of Supply.) 

THERE'S an S. 0. S. behind the Lines 

That feeds us shells and hardtack, 
And guns and clothes and beans and things, 

And heals our wounds and pain. 
There's an S. 0. S. across the seas 

That knits for us and writes to us, 
Buys bonds and whoops it up for us, 

And cheers us on again. 

There's an S. 0. S. behind the Lines, 

We could not do without it : 
Just go and ask the Army, 

If you'd know the reasons why. 
There's an S. 0. S. across the seas, 

And if you ever doubt it, 
Just go and ask a soldier, 

Who will promptly black your eye. 



67 



THE GAS-PROOF MULE. 

I 'YE heard the cat hath nine lives, 

The hen and worm I 've seen, 
But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule 

Is the toughest thing they wean. 

Each night he hauled the water-cart — 
(And to know what Water means, 

You have to see a trench-bound bunch 
When filling their canteens). 

However, no digression now, 

But straightway to my story, 
And I'll paint that black mule white 

And crowned with a crown of glory. 

We crowded 'round the faucets — 

On each, six waited turns — 
The thirstiest crew I ever knew — 

With the ingrowing thirst that burns. 



L C J 



And all was peace and quiet — 

The pause before the storm — 
When the distant, whirling, demon shriek 

Of the G. I. Cans took form. 
68 



And when the third one got our range, 

With haste, but dignity, 
We sought the dugouts 'cross the road, 

Calm, though precipitously. 

But the fastest thing I've seen on legs, 
And I 've seen the best, at that. 

Was the water-mule when he took the road 
At a hundred in nothing flat. 

Whether he headed for gay Paree — 

For Brussels or Berlin — 
We didn't stop to figure out — 

But he sure was headed in. 

We only thought of our thirst next day, 

And a song we'd heard afar, 
Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye 

To his "mule with the old hee-haw." 

Well, all that night they threw us gas 

And high explosive shells, 
And four long hours we wore our masks, 

To ward the murderous smells. 

And when the first white streak of dawn 

Told ' ' Stand-to ' ' was begun, 
We stumbled back and took our posts 

To wait our friend the Hun. 

The Hun did not appear, but gas 
Thick clothed both hill and dale 

In clouds and sheets of dead-man's drab, 
And down in the deepest vale — 
69 



With perfect poise and nonchalance, 
Sang-froid and savoir-faire, 

Browsed that fool mule, capaciously, 
With never thought or care. 



70 



INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR, 

THEY shall tell of the Arms resplendent — 

The men who dared the air; 
They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns 

Where the far horizons flare: 
They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs — 

Each rear and flanking drive — 
And the song of the Service of Supply, 

That kept them all alive. 

And when they seem to have finished, 

And ye think that the chant is done, 
They will tell the tale of the tramping men 

In the sweat of a torrid sun. 
They will tell the tale of the marching men 

Who plod the live-long night, 
To reach the crest at the break o' dawn 

When the Nations go to fight. 

They will tell the tale of the tired men 

Beneath a straining load ; 
Mile by mile with lunging step 

And glassy stare on the road. 
They will tell the tale of the front-line trench, 

And the one cold meal at night, 
And the terrible song of the bursting shells, 

And the flares' uncanny light. 
71 



They will tell the tale of the moving ranks 

"When the zero hour lifts, 
And the khaki lines leap forward 

In the face of the steel-shod drifts. 
Where the great shots split asunder, 

And clutter hill and plain 
With the weary bodies of the men 

Who may not march again. 

And so for a wide World's wonder, 

And the ages yet to be, 
They will sing in deathless numbers 

The song of the Infantry. 
They will slowly close the volume — 

The story fully told, 
And a tear shall fall on the cover, 

Whose letters are flaming gold. 



72 



THE FLOWERS OF FRANCE. 

THE flowers of France are blooming 

Upon this bright June day, 
The flowers of France are fragrant 

And smiling swing and sway, 
(For what is death and carnage 

A dozen miles away?) 

The flowers of France are blooming 
Among the wheat and grass — 

The scarlet headed poppies 
That nod you as you pass, 

And the blue cornflowers' brilliant hue, 
And the daisies in a mass. 

The flowers of France are blooming 
And beckoning in the breeze, 

And laughing in the sunshine, 
And bending to the bees, 

(But the wooden crosses in a row — 
Oh what know they of these?) 

The flowers of France are blooming 

In every rainbow shade, 
And as a rainbow is an arch 

By tears of heaven made, 
I wonder if the flowers of France 

Are the tears that France has paid ? 
73 



A FIRST-CLASS PRIVATE. 

I haven't a worry or a care — 

My mind's "at ease" and furled: 

For I'm a First-class Private, 
And I'm Sitting on the World. 

The Loot, before the whole platoon, 

He up and called me forth 
To drill my squad, " Squads east" and "west, 

Not mentioning south and north. 
To drill my squad, "Squads 'round-about," 

For all the World to see — 
But I'm a First-class Private and 

That's good enough for me. 

The Loot he is a dandy man 

And all that kind of thing, 
And I know he wants to see how I 

A corporal's job could swing: 
But back here in a "rest town" 

It just means dirty work, 
And / must take the bawling-out 

For what the squad may shirk. 

'Tis I they'd turn and eye with scorn 
If some gun wasn't clean; 
74 



,r Fis I would play the wet nurse 
For a rookie none could wean : 

And if a pair of frozen shoes 
Makes Smith miss reveille, 

It isn't Smith or "Sunny France,' ' 
It's me, yes dammit, me. 

So forth I take the Squad to drill, 

With ne 'er a fault or slip ; 
But a smile is in my glance, forsooth, 

And a jest is on my lip, 
Akidding with each friend o'mine — 

And the Loot was never fain 
To try to make a non-com 

Of Private Me again. 

Oh nothing, oh no nothing 
May your resolution shake, 

When you're a First-class Private, 
And you know you're Sitting Jake. 



75 



BIRDS OF BATTLE. 

KEATS sings in peerless stanzas 

To the lovely Nightingale — 
And Shelley tells of the Skylark 

Above the summer gale — 
But I to the Birds of Battle 

Needs lift my numbers frail. 

For far by the out-flung wires, 

AYhere the shell-torn tree stumps stand, 

And over the barren, hole-strewn tracks 
Of the wastes of Xo Man's Land, 

In the morning light and the black of night, 
The Birds of Battle stand. 

No shrieking shots may quell them — 

Nor gloom nor storm nor rain, 
As out of the crash or stillness 

A wondrous, shrill refrain 
Cuts clear and glad and lithesome 

Above the death-strewn plain. 

The weary heavens welcome, 

And echo back the song, 
And weary soldiers linger, 

And pause to listen long 
To the one glad cry in a war-torn sky, 

That holds so much of wrong. 
76 



ONLY FOR YOU. 

THE torturous hike up the hill road, 

Plowing through snow and mud ; 
The poor weary arches breaking — 

The socks that are wet with our blood : 
The terrible, binding, burning strap 

That's cutting our shoulder through — 
And our parched lips stammer, "My Country, 

For you and only for you." 

The slight and the slur and the nagging 

We must take from a rowdy or cad ; 
And we simply salute and say * ' Yes sir, ' ' 

And pretend that we never feel mad : 
Though our heart is a forest of hatred — 

And justice seems hidden from view — 
And we mutter, "For you, oh my Country — 

For you, yea, and only for you." 

When all evening long the guns' reddened glares 

Turn night into hellish day, 
Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut 

The drab of the dawn 's growing gray : 
When over the top we are starting again — 

Full knowing the thing that we do — 
We murmur, "For you, oh my Country — 

For you, aye and only for you. ' ' 
77 



COOTIES. 

SOME people call 'em Totos — 
Some people call 'em Lice; 

Some people call 'em several things 
That really aren't nice; 

But the Soldier calls 'em "Cooties," 
So "Cooties" must suffice. 

We've met the dear Mosquito — 
We've met the festive Fly — 

It seems to me we've seen the Flea 
That jumpeth far and high; 

Yea, we have known various bugs — 
Though not the reason why. 

But when you're in the trenches 

And cannot take a bath, 
As one canteen of water 

Is all one day one hath, 
You raise the comely Cooties — 

Who raise, in turn, your wrath. 

You can't escape the Cooties 

By day nor yet by night. 
No 0. I. Can alarms them, 

Nor other sound of fight. 

78 



Not even Gas affects them — 
Which doesn't seem just right. 

You may not eat, you may not sleep, 

You may not bat an eye: 
You may not duck a six-inch shell 

That's singing gaily by, 
But that a Cootie, like the Poor, 

Is with you — very nigh. 

They bite you singly and in squads, 

They have a whole parade ; 
They form a skirmish line and sweep 

Across each hill and glade ; 
But seek their dugouts when you think 

Your grip is firmly laid. 

It does no good to curse 'em — 

They cannot hear or talk. 
It does no good to chase 'em — 

To still-hunt or to stalk. 
The only thing is hand-grenades, 

At which, 'tis said, they balk. 

Oh Cooties, little Cooties, 
You have no sense of shame ; 

You are not fair, you are not square, 
You do not play the game — 

But east and west and south and north 
Is spread afar your fame. 



79 



OLD FUSEE. 
(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.) 

I REALLY hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee — 
Where the land is scarred and peeled, 
And the broken battlefield 
Bears its red and deadly yield — 

Wearily. 

I really hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee — 
To the wind and dew and rain 
Of a shorn and shotted plain, 
Till stranger hands again 

Discover thee. 

I really hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee — 
To the clinging, clogging dust — 
To the all-destroying crust 
Of a clawing, gnawing rust — ■ 

Unmercifully. 

I really hate to leave you, 
Old Fusee — 
80 



But they've plugged me good and hard, 
So I quit you, trusty pard, 
As I creep back rather marred, 
To old Blightee. 

I really hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee — 
With your bore a brilliant sheen, 
And your metals black and clean, 
Where your brown striped stock and lean 

Gleams tigerishly. 

I really hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee— 
For the wanton weather 's hate, 
And careless hands to desecrate 
Barrel, bolt and butt and plate, 

Unthinkingly. 

I really hate to leave you, 

Old Fusee — 
And I bear a double pain 
As I pause to turn again 
Where I left you on the plain, 

Unwillingly. 



81 



THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY. 

The shades of red an' white an' blue 
Mean rather more to me an' you, 
Than just parades an' bands an' such 
And hollerin' loud an' talking much. 

The wounds are dark and red — 
All jagged-red in Blighty: 
And untamed hearts are red 
Where, stretching bed on bed, 
Lies lax each weary head, 
In Blighty. 

The walls are blank and white — 

All fresh and white in Blighty: 
And cheeks are gaunt and white, 
Where through the endless night 
They fight the second fight, 
In Blighty. 

Outside the skies are blue — 

Soft, cloud-flecked blue o 'er Blighty 
But clear, relentless blue 
Of purpose steeled anew 
Lies there revealed to you 

In every eye in Blighty. 
82 



The shades of red an' white an' blue 
Mean rather more to me an' you, 
Than just parades an' bands an' such 
And hollerin' loud an' talking much. 



83 



WHEN NURSE COMES IN. 

(Convalescent stage.) 

THE stories sure are rich and rare, 
They 'd strike you blind, they 'd turn your hair, 
They 're dark as coal down in the bin — 
Till Nurse conies in. 

The language is an awful hue, 
Astreak with crimson shades and blue; 
'Twould scorch a mammoth's leather skin — 
Till Nurse comes in. 

Words run the gamut of the trench — 
They beat old Mustard Gas for stench, 
They rise with oscillating din — 
Till Nurse comes in. 

The cussin's quaint and loud and strong, 
Imported stuff, that don't belong 

In dictionaries fat or thin — 
Till Nurse comes in. 

And then you'd be surprised to hear 
The change of pace, the shift o" gear, 
The dainty tales that just begin — 
TThen Nurse comes in. 
84 



CHARLIE CHAPLIN IN BLIGHTY. 

THE mess-hall windows blanketed 

To bar the western light — 
The tables cleaned and cleared away, 
And bench by bench in close array 
Five hundred convalescents sway 

To catch the caption bright. 

And there are men with helpless legs, 

And torn chest and back ; 
And men with arms in sling and splint, 
And one poor eye that bears no glint, 
And muscles limp or turned to flint — 

And souls upon the rack. 

They came from Chateau Thierry — 

From Fere-en-Tardenois — 
From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, 
From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, 
'Cross Marne and Ourcq and Vesle aflow 

They hammered them afar. 

And now upon the screen is thrown 

An old familiar form: 
'Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, 
At skating-rink or riot meal, 

85 



And every mirth-producing reel 
Awakes the farthest dorm. 

The aching head, the splintered arm, 

The weary, dragging feet ; 
The wound that took a month to drain — 
The everlasting, gnawing pain — 
Are all forgot and gone again 

When Charlie strikes the street. 

Your esoteric shrug and sneer 

And call him crude and quaint ; 
But we who 've seen him ' ' over here ' ' — 
Who've heard the laugh that brings the tear— 
Who've heard the bellowing roar and cheer — 

We call him Charles the Saint. 



86 



TWO WORLDS. 

HERE in the Jar din des Plantes of Nantes 

I sit in the nickering shade, 
Watching the scampering children play — 

And the way of a man and a maid — 
And the noble women of France in the black 

Of a Nation unafraid. 

The lace of the shadows across the paths 
Where the warm sun niters through, 

And the open vista between the trees, 
With the swan pond half in view, 

And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines 
. 'Neath an arch of Brittany's blue. 

The air is soft as a day in June, 

The blossoms manifold 
Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue 

Across the green and gold, 
And earth and sky in witchery 

Entwine you in their hold. 

And it comes to me, Can it really be 

But two full moons have fled, 
Since I limped from a scarred and riven field 

Where lay the newly dead, 

87 



Bathed in the light of a splendid fight, 
And blotched with their blood 's own red. 

A world of crimson slaughter 

"Where the grim locked legions sway— 

And the mad machine guns whistle 
Their endless roundelay — 

And the sinister sound of the thundering pound 
Of the great guns night and day. 

Night and day, night and day, 

With scarce a pause between, 
As out of the empty dark a voice 

From the farthest hills unseen, 
Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down 

Where the helpless front lines lean. 



The air is soft as a morn in June — 

The filmy shadows sway ; 
And only the joyous music 

Of the prattle of children at play, 
And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves 

That tell of the closing day. 



88 



EMBARKATION HOME. 

IF you're a homebound soldier 

Who 's done his little best, 
And you are going 'board the boat 

At St. Nazaire or Brest, 
Bordeaux or any other port, 

Steam-up and headed west: 

If you are full o' the joy o' life 
And "pep" and all that stun 3 ; 

And the ozone permeates your soul 
And makes you gay and bluff, 

Don't turn and yell, "Who won the War\ 
The M Ps,"— Can that guff. 

For the M Ps are a sacred caste 

That boss the city street 
A hundred miles behind the Lines 

Where dangers never greet, 
Nor roaming shells come swirling by, 

Nor surging first waves meet. 

So if the long, tense session 

Of soul-engulfing war, 
And "Prussian" discipline and rule, 

And heart-enslaving law 
89 



Say, "Open wide the throttle 
Of lung and throat and jaw" — 

Repress that natural impulse, 
For you 're not human — yet : 

Sedately up the gangplank walk, 
Eyes front and lips tight set, 

Or you'll come back and spend six weeks 
In a mud-dump, nice and wet. 

The wind is blowing 'cross the bow, 

The first smoke lags alee — 
The sun that 's broken through the clouds 

Is dancing on the sea, 
So, homebound soldier, watch your step, 

And take advice from me. 



90 



THE STATUE OF LIBERTY. 

SING of the Venus de Milo, 

The lady without any arms ; 
Sing of the Venus of this and of that, 

And tell of their marvelous charms : 
Rave of your wonderful statues, 

In divers lands here o 'er the sea, 
In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams 

Is our godmother, Miss Liberty. 

Its contour may not be perfection — 

Its technique we really don't know — 
If you ever asked, "Who was the artist V 9 

It would come as a terrible blow. 
But to us it is home, friends and Country, 

To us it means all that is best, 
'Tis the first that lifts out of the waters 

Of "Our little Gray Home in the West." 

'Tis the first on that endless horizon 

Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, 
And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us 

From out of the gathering gloom — 
'Tis the first that calls beckoning to us 

Through the mist of the swaggering sea — 
1 ' Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons, 

And come back to the bosom of me. ' ' 
91 



PAET II. 
PRE-WAR POEMS. 



TO FRANCE— 1917. 

THE sea that kisses France's shore, 
It beats on yours and mine. 

Her love and faith and chivalry, 
That sparkle as her wine, 

With all our faith and all our love 
Commingling combine. 

The colors of the flag of France 

Are ours by hue and hue: 
The blazing red of courage — 

The white of purpose true, 
And constancy and loyalty 

Awoven in the blue. 

The spirit and the soul of France, 

That shatter fetters free, 
They came to us in darkest days 

To weld our destiny ; 
And so with sword in hand we come 

To pay our debt to Thee. 

To pay our debt a hundredfold — 
Friend of our new-born years. 

To march with you and fight with you, 
Till rise the final cheers — 
95 



1 hand in hand, o *er a grave-strewn land. 

"Where blends our blood as onee it did 

In days of a long gone 
When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed 

And the white and crimson bands of dawn 
Hose in the eastern sky. 

An i the white and crimson bands of dawn, 

Shill giriif :_rii :_rir irnzr :::. 

vT::- ';■_-. ; 
And leap to the charge and sweep the field 

With the Trois Conleurs of Franee, 



If right is might and Honor lives — 
Oh Sister ? cross the seas — 

And Liberty and Justice still 
Hold high commune with these; 

A i:\ir-f :li " : :; : ;:; 7 — i::~ :_ T Hztji. 
And his iniquities. 



: :? 



THE PACIFIST. 

COWARDS and curs and traitors, 

Fatuous dreaming fools — 
Binding us, stripped, for the madman 

Nurtured of dastard schools, 
Where right of might and who springs first 

Are the only known rules. 

AY ell fed, well housed and sleek and smug, 
Full pursed and full of pride — 

Your fields are green, your lanes are fair 
Where peaceful homes abide, 

And your children play by sunny streams 
That laughing seaward glide. 

What Primal Power tells you eat 
To the ends of your belly-greed — 

What holds your fields with harvests full, 
And answers every need — 

And bids your bairns play laughingly 
With never care or heed? 

The answer, Fool, is written large 

In words of blazing light — 
They are rewards of dwelling in 

A Land of kingly might, 

97 



That grants you surety and wealth 
And guards you, day and night. 

And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength — 

And why, and how and when? 
In a World of strife and reddened knife 

Did it rise by tongue and pen ? 
No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms, 

The arms of its fighting men. 

And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands, 

Agaze into Heaven's blue, 
With sanctimonious murmurings 

Of what the Lord will do ; 
While your neighbor and your neighbor's son 

Go forth and fight for you. 

For you, you cur, and your belly-need — 

For your hearth and kith and kin : 
For your harvest and your banking-house 

Where you shovel the shekels in, 
Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart, 

And your soul is parchment skin. 

Religion cannot cover 

A dog whose liver is white. 
Your Christ, with righteous anger, 

Smote hard to left and right 
The usurers. And never said 

He was too proud to fight. 

When we are another Belgium 
And the land with blood is dyed, 

98 



And your homes are burned and your women raped, 

And ye know that ye have lied — 
Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp 

That ye are satisfied. 



99 



BATTLE HYMN OF 17. 

On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the 
World War. 

NOT with vain boasts and mouthings — 

Not with jesting light — 
But for Duty and Love of Country 

Come we in armor dight. 

Not for our own advantage — 

Not for Adventure's lust — 
Not for the hope of honor — 

But a Cause that is high and just. 

Not for the praise of our fellow-man, 

Or greed or gain or creed, 
But for the sight of the suffering eyes 

That call us in their need. 

(The withering, mad machine-guns 

Shall drop us one by one, 
Where the red, red streams of No Man's Land 

Gleam 'neath a blood-red sun.) 

(The shriek of the spraying shrapnel — 
The roar and the blinding glare, 
100 



And the gaping crater's dripping fangs 
Shall ope and find us there.) 

Not in the strong man 's tyranny 

Or the pride of worldly things, 
But guarding clean traditions, 

Unstained by the hands of kings. 

Not with sudden yearning, 

But knowing the risks we dare, 
We board the waiting galleons 

For a Nation brave and fair. 

(For a Nation bearing the battle's brunt — 
The strength of the Vandals' blast — 

With an even keel and a steady wheel, 
And her Colors nailed to the mast.) 

Not with hectic fire, 

But weighing the thing we do, 
We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts — 

To the France our Fathers knew. 

Brothers in blood of old — and now — 

Together to hunt and slay, 
Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair- 
An eye for an eye — a hair for a hair — 
And we leave him broken and bleeding there 

Forever and a day. 

Not with vain boasts and mouthings — 

But in silent, grim parade — 
We come, Lord God of Battles, 

To the last and great Crusade. 
101 



PART III. 
OTHER VERSES. 



MY SAPPHIRE. 

I HAVE a sapphire rich and fair 

And soft as a velvet sky, 
When only the stars are shining low 
And the heavens hold a mystic glow 
And a hnshed world stands agaze to know 

The wonderful Whence and Why. 

I have a sapphire that I turn 

In the dark of somber days: 
And the darting tongues of nickering blue 
Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, 
Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, 

And true as m 'lady 's gaze. 

I have a sapphire that I hold 

Beneath the chandelier: 
And the phosphor of its azure gleam 
Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream 
Where the Sun-god hurls his molten beam 

In the morn of the golden year. 

I have a sapphire I adore — 

Of varying whims and moods — 
Blue-black it lies with never a mark 
Across the dim unfathomed dark, 

105 



Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark — 
And again it sullen broods. 

I have a sapphire that I bend 

"Neath the light of burning rays •. 
And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, 
Seething and writhing and leaping higher 
Till they come to the land of my heart's desire, 
In a glittering, blinding blaze. 

I have a sapphire that I hold. 

'When the goal seems far away : 
When the lee shore churns in saffron spume. 
And the fluctuant ocean 's plume on plume 
Bears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom, 

And the sky is ashen gray. 

I have a sapphire that I turn ; 

And the clouds break, and the wine 
Of a glorious sun spreads east and west 
To where the Islands of the Blest 
Kaise verdant shores at my behest, 

And a golden world is mine. 

Oh Sapphire from a distant vale 

Where the white Himalayas tower: 
Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue, 

And passions strong and hearts are true, 
All these are met and blent in you, 
A princely heir and dower. 



106 



THE TWINS. 

OUT of the wonderful nowhere, 

Into the lowly here; 
Laughing and loving and lithesome, 

And radiating cheer. 

Twin rose-buds o' Killarney hue — 

Fragrant and fresh and fair — 
And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true, 

And tawny yellow hair. 

And smiles as sweet as any meet 

In pleasant paths above: 
And golden laughter that echoes after, 

To finger the chords of love. 

Two wee buds o' Killarney hue 

That beckon and beguile — 
And 'neath your spell we 're learning well 

There is something still worth while. 

Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake 

O'er fields of sleet and snow, 
There's sunshine rare just everywhere — 

For you have taught us so. 



107 



ON SENDING MY BOOK TO AN 
ENGLISH FRIEND. 

' ' IT 'S a long lane that knows no turnings ' ' — 

And the seas are wide indeed, 
But there are no barriers dividing 

The Anglo-Saxon creed. 
Fair fighting when the skies are lowering — 

Fair peace when skies are clear — 
And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering, 

And the heart that holds no fear. 

"It's a long lane that knows no turnings" — 
And Browning never said a thing more true, 

So I know you '11 know the spirit that impels me 
To send this little messenger to you. 



108 



IMMORTAL KEATS. 

MATCHLESS bard of all the ages- 
Lyric sounder of the lyre — 

Wake among your golden echoes — 
Rise amid your latent fire — 

Tell us, Master of the Muses — 
Sweetest singer ever sung — 

By what law of Earth or Heaven 
Ye were called away so young? 

By what law of God or Mammon — 
By what creed of land or sea — 

Was a weary World forsaken 
Of the mind that harbored thee? 

Ere that wondrous mind's fruition 
Scarce had grown to the tree. 

If the half -fledged sapling gave us 
Melodies past human praise — 

If such virgin buddings crowded 
Those few sad and glorious days ; 

If such flowers, barely opened, 
Swept us in a wild amaze — 

What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy, 
Would your soul have given to men- 
109 



What the marvelous meed and measure 
Of your pulsing, choral pen — 

Had your numbered days been lengthened 
To a three score years and ten? 

As through mystic lands ye led us 
O'er the paths your feet had gone: 

Pipes of Pan — and fain we followed — 
Glad and willing slave and pawn, 

Till we reached the fields Elysian — 
Till we faced the gorgeous dawn : 

Till the lanes seemed filled with roses — 

Roses lipped with opal dew: 
Till the vales seemed filled with incense — 

Incense slowly drifting through : 
Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes — 

Grottoes amber, gold and blue : 

Till the songs of birds rang clearer 
And the sunshine shone more rare, 

And the moon above the meadows 
Gathered love, and left it there ; 

And the swaying stars rose whiter — 
And the World was very fair : 

As your thoughts ' eternal fountains, 

Shot with iridescent gleams, 
Floating down through glades enchanted, 

On the breast of faery streams, 
To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl — 

Reached the haven of our dreams. 



110 



TO A LITTLE GIEL. 

FLAMMARION and Kelvin and Herschel every one, 

Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles 

away. 

So I couldn't contradict them — it wouldn't do at all — 

But they had never heard your laughter innocent 

and gay. 

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, 
They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human 
ken: 
But they had never seen your face, upturned, aques- 
tioning — 
A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o ' men. 

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, 
They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so 
bright and rare: 
But comet glow could never show the living threads 
of light 
That dance and gleam in th' rippling stream and 
fragrance of your hair. 

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, 
They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis 
hue; 

111 



But they had never known eyes that gaze into your 
soul 
In longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and 
blue. 

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, 
They said no melody could match the singing of the 
spheres : 
But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at 
play — 

The music of a weary world of roil and toil and 
tears. 

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel everv one. 
HfteyVe told the tale of the double stars, and their 
faith the eons through — 
But constant though they be, their hearts could never 
know the love, 
The yearning burning tender love, dear child, we 
bear for vou. 



112 



GOD. 



THEY would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet 
to Thee— 

They who are blind : 
They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin, 

After their kind. 

They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, 
jealousy — 

Thou the adored: 
Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee, 

Master and Lord. 

They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship — 

Each empty rite : 
Bigotry, canting and sere superstition, 

Knowing no light. 

Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite — 

Mystical creeds: 
False and insipid and brutal and selfish — 

And wrought to their needs. 

They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving, 
And ne'er a flaw — 
113 



They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee, 
Thee and Thy law. 

Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us — 

Tangible stand. 
Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent — 

Sceptre in hand. 

1 ' Even as kings have done, through all the ages, 

Brave to behold — 
Fanfare of trumpets, be jeweled and refulgent 

And girdled with gold : 

' ' Or in a chariot welded of star-dust — 

Glittering white — 
Pause at the cloud-line 'mid crashing of thunder 

And blazing of light. 

"Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble — 

The spheres are amoan; 
The Earth for a footstool — the outermost planets 

Grouped for a throne. 

"Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship 
Thee, 

Thou in Thy might — 
Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid — 

Aflame in our sight. ' ' 



114 



II 



They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge 

Only a quaff, 
Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning, 

Children who laugh. 

Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms — 

Dust of the dust: 
Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting — 

And bearing no trust. 

They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark, 

Came not of Thee : 
Function by function in wonderful unison — 

Each mystery. 

Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing, 

Air, sea and land : 
Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning — 

Made to their hand. 

They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature, 

Calling it Chance : 
And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory, 

Only enhance. 

But when in mercy the last word is spoken — 

When the gates yawn; 
Father of Nations — take Thou Thy children 

Into the dawn. 



115 



Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning- 
Ultimate — vast — 

Showing compassion and loving they knew not, 
E 'en to the last. 



116 



THE GOLDEN DAY. 

HAVE ye a day that bears the glare 

Of the flaming morning sun ? 
Have ye a day the mind may search, 

Weighing what ye have done? 

Have ye a day ye are satisfied 

Will stand the acid test — 
From the first gray strand of the eastern skies 

To the last red glow in the west ? 

Have ye a day ye grappled with 

And hurled in mortal throes, 
When, 'bove the white horizon, 

The Great Occasion rose ? 

Mayhap the World bore witness 
To the things of your Golden Day : 

Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men, 
And ye've thrown the key away. 



117 



NOTES 



NOTES. 

Trenches . . 17 

French Lorraine 17 

All Lorraine is now French, but, of course, it was not 
so during the war. 

Kultur 18 

The so-called German culture. 

Barb-Wire Posts 19 

Herein is described a conftnon optical illusion or phe- 
nomenon seen by all soldiers, old and young, experienced 
or green, during the long night vigils looking through 
the wires, across No Man's Land. 

Boche 19 

A German. 

Hun 20 

A German. The people of Germany take great excep- 
tion to being called "Huns," protesting that they are 
not of this stock. After the defeat of Attila and his 
Huns at Chalons, in 451 A. D., by the combined efforts of 
the Celts themselves, the indigenous people of France, 
the Romans, who were still masters of the country, the 
Franks, who had already become a power in the land, 
having advanced as far south as the Somme, and the 
Visigoths, who, early in the same century, had estab- 
lished their great empire in southern France and Spain; 
after this great battle the Huns retreated back into 

121 



Germany, where many of their descendants must still 
be, but of course the majority of the German people are 
not, from an ethnological standpoint, Huns. The reason 
for this appelation being applied to them is simply that 
when a people have the attributes of a Hun, they must 
expect to be so designated. A man may very properly 
be called a pig without any misapprehension that he 
actually travels upon four hoofs. However, it is pos- 
sible, though not probable, that the leopard may change 
his spots; and time, and contact with civilization, and 
a democratic form of government may eventually eradi- 
cate the present very marked idiosyncrasies of the Ger- 
man race. 

Your Gas-Mask 22 

"full-field" 22 

The full-field pack, consisting of blankets, shelter-half, 
clothing, extra shoes, etc., weighing over 50 pounds, on 
the back of an infantryman, and guaranteed to increase 
50 pounds in weight every five kilometers after the first 
ten kilometer mark has been passed. 

full marching-order 22 

The full-field pack as described above, plus rifle, cart- 
ridge-belt with a hundred rounds of ammunition, two 
bandoliers, each containing a hundred extra rounds, gas- 
mask, mess outfit and the steel helmet, commonly known 
as your tin hat. 

Slum and Beep Stew 23 

Josephus 23 

Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy during the 
war. 

gobs 23 

Nickname for sailors. 

Brains of the Army 23 

Any order apparently wrong or ridiculous is generally 
provocative of the soldiers saying, "Brains of the Army." 

122 



Thotmes III, (or Thutmose or Thutmosis) . . 23 
Of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who began his reign about 
1500 b. c, Egypt's greatest conqueror, and under whom 
the Egyptian Empire attained its largest extent. Rame- 
ses II (the Great) of the following Dynasty, is, however, 
the more generally known. 

Cyrus' doughboys swept etc 24 

Refers to the passage of Cyrus and his great army 
through the Cilician Gates, on his way from his conquest 
of Lydia in Asia Minor, to his descent of the Euphrates 
Valley to Babylon, whose easy capitulation in 539 
b. c. finally brought to an end the old glory of the Baby- 
lonian Empire, which, after a long period under Assyrian 
rule, had blossomed forth in a glorious recrudescence, in 
the latter part of the Seventh Century B. C, under Nebo- 
polassar and his famous son Nebuchadnezzar — and then 
known as the Neo-Babylonian Empire, or, more com- 
monly, as Chaldea. The reader will doubtless remember 
that it was through the same passage in the Taurus 
Mountains that Ashurbanapal, le Grand Monarque of 
Assyria when at the apogee of her power in the Seventh 
Century B. C, and also Alexander the Great, sweeping 
to his eastern conquests, both passed. 

Doughboys is the popular present-day nickname for 
infantrymen. 

Sitting on the World 24 

When the situation is thoroughly agreeable and every- 
thing is "breaking" just right. 

S.O.L 24 

Well known soldier expression which, elegantly trans- 
lated, means being totally and entirely out of luck, but 
not to be adopted for "polite conversation." Remember 
this admonition. 

Mr. Fly 27 

G.I. Cans . 27 

Large high-explosive shells of about 6 inches diameter 

123 



or over, and made of thick galvanized iron or what ap- 
peared to be such. 

Cooties , 28 

Are pleasant little neighbors in the trenches, due to 
the inadequacy of bathing facilities. 

The Salvation Army With the A. E. F. . . 29 
John Doe. Private Doe 29 

The designation of an American soldier, where no 
specific name is used, as, for example, to fill in the place 
for a name on a sample blank or application of any kind. 
Not used as a popular nickname for the American sol- 
dier as Tommy Atkins is used for the British soldier. 

A. E. F 29 

American Expeditionary Forces: the title of the 
American troops in France during the war. 

Shell-Holes 30 

The "77" . 30 

The typical artillery piece of the German army, and 
having a caliber of approximately three inches, roughly 
corresponding with the famous French "75," though not 
as effective, but quite effective enough. 

Food .-,..." 33 

Salvation 34 

Salvation Army. 

Song op the Volunteers of 1917 40 

Bayard 40 

The great chivalric hero and warrior of France during 
the reign of Francis I. The Chevalier Bayard was killed 
in northern Italy in 1524, during the advance of Bour- 
bon at the head of the Imperial forces. 

the Cid 40 

The chief heroic figure of Spain, who lived in the 
124 



Eleventh Century, fighting ably against the Moorish 
power until exiled by his king in the year 1075, after 
which he became a free lance, sometimes engaging in 
battle the Infidel and sometimes the Christian. He 
died in 1099, and, while a very able commander, it is 
generally understood that most of his great deeds are a 
gorgeous fabric of tradition rather than actual history. 

Artillery Registering 44 

The bursting of shrapnel over your trenches, by the 
enemy, in order to get the range for their shell-fire which 
is to follow. 

Trucks 48 

Toto 49 

A nickname for a Cootie, qv. 

Including nuts, candy etc 50 

The American soldier has a notoriously "sweet-tooth," 
and big husky men positively gormandize on things sac- 
charine, when obtainable. 

Mademoiselle 51 

The army man pronounces the word "mademoiselle" 
at full length, using the most punctilious care to enun- 
ciate each and every one of the four syllables. Whether 
this is due to the word being foreign to many of them, 
or whether it is due to their all-saving subtle sense of 
American humor, so that it seems rather delicious to 
call the little French ladies by so long and ponderous a 
title, I really do not know, but I strongly suspect that 
it is the latter. 

The First Division 53 

Caesar had his Tenth Legion, Napoleon had his Old 
Guard, and the American Army during the World War 
had its First Division. It might therefore not seem 
entirely malapropos to quote the words of the great 
French general Mangin, who was the corps commander 

125 



of the First Division of the American Army, the famous 
First Moroccans of the French Army and the Second 
Division of the American Army, at the Second Battle of 
the Marne, that began on July 18th, 1918, and was the 
turning point of the whole war. In this great door 
movement the First Division was given practically the 
post of honor at the hinge itself, i.e., directly at 
Soissons, only one division, the 153rd French Infantry 
Division, being on the inside of the First Division, and 
as it was in this engagement that a gentleman of Teu- 
tonic origin, operating a machine-gun from our extreme 
left flank, and apparently very much irritated about 
something, put a bullet in my side and out my back, it 
is only natural that the message of Gen. Mangin was of 
interest to me, and saved, and here quoted verbatim: — 

Lauds Americans in Battle. 

General Mangin Thanks Pershing's Men for Brilliant 

Part in Drive. 

(By x4ssociated Press.) 

With the French. Army in France, Aug. 7. — General 
Mangin, who was in direct command of the Allied forces 
in the drive against the German right flank south of 
Soissons, has issued the following order of the day 
thanking the American troops for their brilliant partici- 
pation in the battle which caused the German retreat 
between the Marne and the Aisne: 

"Officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the 
Third American Army Corps: 

"Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades, you 
threw yourselves into the counter-offensive begun on 
July 18th. You ran to it like going to a feast. Your 
magnificent dash upset and surprised the enemy and 
your indomitable tenacity stopped counter-attacks by 
his fresh divisions. You have shown yourselves to be 
worthy sons of your great country and have gained the 
admiration of your brothers in arms. 

"Ninety-one cannon, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty 
and ten kilometers (six and a quarter miles) of recon- 

126 



quered territory are your share of the trophies of this 
victory. Besides this, you have acquired a feeling of 
your superiority over the barbarian enemy against whom 
the children of liberty are fighting. To attack him is 
to vanquish him. 

"American comrades, I am grateful to you for the 
blood you generously spilled on the soil of my country. 
I am proud of having commanded you during such splen- 
did days, and to have fought with you for the deliver- 
ance of the world." 

"The Stars and Stripes," the weekly paper of the A. 
E. F. in France, in giving a tabulated form of the record 
of the various divisions, and their insignia, which was 
worn on the shoulder of the left sleeve, said the follow- 
ing of the First Division: — 

Division Insignia: Crimson figure "1" on khaki back- 
ground, chosen because the numeral "1" represents the 
number of the division and many of its subsidiary or- 
ganizations. Also, as proudly claimed, because it was 
the "First Division in France; first in sector; first to 
fire a shot at the Germans ; first to attack ; first to con- 
duct a raid; first to be raided; first to capture prison- 
ers; first to inflict casualties; first to suffer casualties; 
first to be cited singly in General Orders; first in the 
number of Division, Corps and Army Commanders and 
General Staff Officers produced from its personnel." 

To this might have been added that the First Division, 
which was a Regular Army division, and originally com- 
prised about twenty or thirty per cent "old soldiers," 
and the rest of us "war volunteers," but proud of being 
"Regulars," the First Division, which consisted of the 
16th, 18th, 26th and 28th Infantry Regiments, the 5th, 
6th and 7th Field Artillery Regiments, the 1st Engineer 
Regiment, and a complement of Cavalry, etc., was the 
division that General Pershing, the commander-in- 
chief, picked out to fill the most vital positions on im- 
portant occasions, as, for example, when, from the 
whole army, he chose the First Division to go into the 
front line just west of Montdidier, at the Battle of 

127 



Picardy, to help liold the very apex of the huge Ger- 
man bulge that had swept southwestward from St. 
Quentin to Montdidier, in the great series of Hun drives 
which started on March 21st. 19 IS. Again, it was the 
First Division that Pershing placed at Soissons. at 
virtually the hinge of the great door movement in the 
turning point of the whole war. the Second Battle of 
the Marne, as heretofore described; and it was the 
First Division to which Pershing again gave the post 
of honor when the St. Mihiel salient was closed, as it 
was this Division that was placed on the inside po- 
sition of the great southern jaw. just east of Xivray 
and dangerous Mont Sec. 

Casualties and kilometers make very interesting read- 
ing, but when a Commander-in-chief consistently and 
persistently picks out one certain division for the 
most difficult and all-important positions, there is not 
much room for argumentation. 

Mr. Page, in his article in The World's TTorA-, for 
May. 1919. in describing the Second Battle of the 
Marne, tells how the First Division went over the top 
with the 153rd French Infantry Division on its left, 
and the famous First Moroccan Division and the Sec- 
ond Division of the American Army on its right, and 
how. in this gruelling engagement, the First Division 
outlasted both the Second Division and the First Mo- 
roccans, and really also the 153rd French Division on 
its left, as this latter was obliged to get reinforcements, 
Mr. Page recapitulating the situation with the follow- 
ing paragraph: — ^-- 

"When the division (the First Division) finally came 
out of the line it had lost more than 7,200 men, 
mostly in the infantry. The full complement of infan- 
try in a division is 12.000. Five days' constant and 
successful attack after a long march: an advance of 
more than six and a quarter miles (ten kilometers) ; 
losses of at least 50 per cent, of the infantry engaged: 
keeping pace with the famous Moroccan Division and 
staving longer in the fi^ht — all this had demonstrated 

128 



that the 1st Division could stand in any company." 
In mentioning these facts there is no desire on my part 
to pretend that this outfit single-handed won the war, 
because, if I said that, I would be talking sheer non- 
sense. The consensus of opinion both at home and 
abroad, seems to be that the whole American Army lived 
entirely up to expectations, so that any man who was 
in a combat division, has good reason to feel proud of 
his own division, irrespective of what one that may 
have been. With this little word of explanation I feel 
at liberty to quote the following which appeared in the 
Paris edition of The New York Herald: — 

Prowess of Yanks Compels Praise Even from Hun, 

(Special telegram to the Herald.) 

From Burr Price. 

With the American Armies. 
Friday. 

From a captured officer of the German army comes a 
remarkable tribute to the fighting prowess of the First 
Division of the American troops, whose work will go 
down in history as among the most remarkable of the 
present war. 

He declared the Germans did not believe the Americans 
could produce, within five years, a division such as they 
had found the First Division to be. The German, when 
taken, had seen four years of severe fighting. This is 
what he had to say yesterday: — 

"I received orders to hold the ground at all costs. The 
American barrage advanced toward my position and 
the work of your artillery was marvelous. The bar- 
rage was so dense that it was impossible for us to move 
out of our dugouts. 

"Following the barrage closely were the troops of the 
First Division. I saw them forge ahead and knew that 
all was lost. All night I remained in my dugout, hop- 
ing vainly that something would happen that would 
permit me to rejoin my army. This morning your 
troops found me and here I am, after four years of fight- 
ing, a prisoner. 

129 



"Yesterday, I knew that the First Division was op- 
posite us, and I knew we would have to put up the hard- 
est fight of the war. The First Division is wonderful 
and the German army knows it. 

"We did not believe that within five years the Ameri- 
cans could develop a division such as this First Division. 
The work of its infantry and artillery is worthy of the 
best armies of the world." 

Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs .... 55 

The gold chevrons, called "stripes," worn on the cuffs 
of "overseas" soldiers, during the World War, each one 
on the left cuff standing for six months' "overseas" serv- 
ice, and each chevron on the right cuff standing for a 
wound. One wound chevron meant a wound or wounds 
severe enough to take a man back to the hospital, irre- 
spective of whether he had one or a dozen bullets or 
pieces of shell in him on that occasion. 

Captain Blankburg .59 

The patrol herein described was what was called a 
"reconnoitering patrol," sent out solely for the purpose 
of gathering information, keeping itself unknown to the 
enemy, and not fighting unless actually attacked. 
"Combat patrols" were sent out for this latter purpose. 

Interrupted Chow 63 

Buzzy-cart . v 63 

The carts that were sent from the company kitchens, 
which were usually from six to ten kilometers back of 
the first line trenches, up to within about two to four 
kilometers of the front line, where they would stop at 
designated points until chow details from the second line 
came back to them, to carry the cans of slum, coffee, 
and the bread or hardtack, up to the men in the first 
and second line. All this, of course, was done under 
cover of darkness, but as the Germans had the range 
of all the roads, etc., and knew at about what time 
the food had to be gone after, it meant that almost 
every night at least one detail was shot to pieces. 

130 



Bog-tag 66 

Small, round metal disc, suspended from the neck by 
a cord, and with the soldier's name, rank and organi- 
zation stamped thereon, and forming an identification 
tag. 

The Gas-Proof Mule 68 

"Stand-to" 69 

In the first and second line trenches everyone was 
obliged to remain awake all night, but at dawn each 
man had to take his exact post, and be prepared to 
repel any enemy attack that might come over, as that 
was a favorite hour for doing so. This was called 
"stand-to." 

Infantry of the World War 71 

Zero hour 72 

The exact time at which you start forward to attack. 

A First-Class Private 74 

Loot . 74 

Abbreviation for lieutenant. 

"Sunny France" 75 

Soldier sarcasm, because he scarcely ever saw any 
sun while in France, and, of course, the majority had 
never visited the Riviera, nor known Paris in summer 
raiment, during normal peace times. 

Sitting Jake 75 

Means the same thing as "Sitting on the World," i.e., 
everything salubrious and "breaking" just right. 

Note 

While realizing that my personal affairs are of no 
possible interest to the reader, it would seem, however, 
almost obligatory for me to do myself justice, and ex- 
plain that I was quite willing to shoulder responsibility, 
which this poem might make it appear I was not. 
Hence the following little anecdote: — During a rest 
131 



period back from the trenches, which was the only oc- 
casion when you had time to bother your head about 
smaller things, several men had applied for officers' 
commissions, so I got some civilian letters of recom- 
mendation, and put in an application to be permitted 
to go up for examination for a commission. This ap- 
plication was forwarded "approved" by my company 
commander, together with personal recommendations 
from my three previous company commanders. As this 
officer is the one who sees you daily, his recommenda- 
tion is, from a military standpoint, of more value than 
that of a major-general. But in spite of my applica- 
tion being forwarded with the approval of all four of 
the company commanders that I had had up to that 
time, it was disapproved higher up by someone who very 
seldom could ever have even seen me. But having had 
no thought or intention of getting a commission, when I 
entered the Army, and having crossed over to Europe as 
a civilian, at my own expense, in August, 1917, to en- 
list in the American Army in France, which I did on 
September 1st, 1017, in Paris, so as to absolutely insure 
getting into the trenches, and as at the time of my ap- 
plication I had already accomplished my purpose, it may 
readily be discerned that the return of my application 
did not perturb the habitual equanimity of my soul, nor 
cause me to lose any of my natural sleep or youthful 
charm. 

Only for You 77 

rowdy or cad 77 

While very often some junior, or even senior, officer 
would fall under this category, and even worse, the ma- 
jority of them really tried to give their men a square 
deal. If an officer were a rough-neck, snob, or as the 
men in the ranks would usually express it, a ribbon- 
counter clerk, it was only quite natural that he would 
take cowardly advantage of his shoulder straps to make 
it as miserable as possible for the men under him, but 
if an officer were a gentleman in civilian life, the man 

132 



in the ranks was sure to be handled as a man and 
treated fairly, so long as he did his military duty and 
conducted himself as a soldier. Of this latter type, I can 
look back with pleasure on all my company commanders, 
remembering especially men like Lt. Victor Parks, Jr., 
and Capt. Allen F. Kingman, "officers and gentlemen" 
in the highest sense of the word. Upon the one or two 
officers of the other type it is quite unnecessary to 
dwell. When once free from contact with a skunk, one 
simply bathes, changes one's clothes, and promptly al- 
lows the odoriferous memory to be wafted away and 
disseminated in the ambient atmosphere of oblivion. 

Silver bursts cut 77 

Artillery flares at night show red, but in the early 
dawn they appear against the dark hillsides like bursts 
of silver. 

Old Fusee 80 

Fusee 80 

Soldier term for his rifle, the French word "fusil" 
meaning that weapon. 

The Colors of Blighty 82 

Because of its brevity, succinctness and expressiveness, 
I have used the word Blighty to designate a military 
hospital, though it was never in really popular use by 
the American soldier for this purpose, and to the British 
soldier it simply meant going back to England, but as 
so often Tommy Atkins went back to his Tight Little 
Island because he was wounded, Blighty frequently 
meant '•'hospital." 

When Nurse Comes In 84 

The phraseology and repertoire of the army man must 
not be taken too seriously, as nine-tenths of the time it 
is simply a safety valve for ebullient spirits or dread mo- 
notony, and with little or no real harm back of it. 

133 



Charlie Chaplin in Blighty 85 

The famous "movie" comedian of the cinema. 
EMBARKATION HOME 89 

MP 89 

Military Police; soldiers acting in that capacity. 



THE END 



134 



L1BRA RY OF CONGRESS 




012 402 



955 7 C\ 



ML 



m 



mi 



